“Mika—Princess Mikayla—is the sixth of the King’s seven children. The King concentrates on the education of his heir; the Queen fusses over her ‘baby’—who is now ten years old, and the other four are close together in age and tend to band together.” The Oddling woman shook her head. “So nobody cares much what Mika does, and Fiolon’s parents are dead—or at least his mother is. If they didn’t have each other, she would be a very lonely child, and so, I suspect, would he.”
Haramis considered that. “I always had Uzun for my best friend,” she said, smiling fondly at a polished wood harp with a bone inlay at the top of its post that stood next to her chair. She ran a hand along its back as if stroking a household pet. “But still, I can’t imagine what childhood would have been like without my sisters. They were always there—whether I wanted them to be or not.” She pulled her thoughts back to the present. “So how does Fiolon fit in? Exactly who is he?”
Ayah continued her report. “Lord Fiolon of Var. His mother was the youngest sister of the King of Var—our Queen is the middle child. Fiolon’s mother died when he was born, but it was over six years before our Queen persuaded the King to allow her to foster her late sister’s child.”
“And Fiolon’s father?” Haramis had been wondering about that point ever since she had heard the children’s conversation.
Ayah shrugged. “Nobody knows. His mother wasn’t married.”
Haramis raised her eyebrows. “The sister of the King of Var had a baby and nobody has any idea who fathered it? Given the lack of privacy in any palace I’ve ever seen, that seems incredible. Surely somebody must at least suspect who her lover was.”
“Gossip has it that she died claiming that one of the Lords of the Air fathered her child.”
Haramis raised her eyebrows. “I had never heard that the Lords of the Air took corporeal form—let alone fathered children.”
Ayah sighed. “She was dying, Lady, and probably delirious. But I agree—it is odd that nobody knows who fathered him. Very odd.”
Haramis shrugged. “I doubt that it matters. Every large family has surplus children. Are he and Mikayla betrothed?”
Ayah shook her head. “There’s some talk of it—Mikayla falls into your ‘surplus’ category as well, as much as any princess can—but there’s no formal contract. I think it might well be a good thing; they’re very fond of each other.”
“That’s a pity,” Haramis said. “Since Mikayla is to be the next Archimage, she’ll have to give him up.”
Ayah’s jaw dropped. “Mika? The Archimage?” She hesitated a long moment before continuing. “White Lady, I really don’t think she’ll like that.”
“It doesn’t matter whether she likes it or not,” Haramis said calmly. “One does not volunteer for this life. It is her destiny, as it was mine.”
2
Haramis felt she could delay no longer. She did not want to think of her successor left as she herself had been—suddenly plunged into being the Archimage of Ruwenda without a clue as to what that might entail. And so she must, cruel and premature as it might seem to her (and obviously to Ayah), begin to educate Mikayla for the office she would hold one day.
Ayah remained for several days at the Tower, with Enya to keep her company, while Haramis made her preparations for the journey to fetch her successor. She could, of course, simply have summoned a few of the great lammergeiers to carry her to the Citadel and bring her and Mikayla back to the Tower. But she wanted Mikayla to see in detail the land she would be bound to, and so, on the day she sent Ayah off by lammergeier, she mounted one fronial and loaded supplies and camping gear on a second and set out for the Citadel to the south where her sister Anigel had lived and died.
The first few days of travel were in the mountains. It was very cold, even though the weather was mild for winter and no new snow fell. (Haramis felt that she was suffering quite enough traveling through the snow that was already there without permitting additional snow to fall.) Despite a well-lined sleep sack, she ached in every joint when she woke in the mornings. But by the end of the fifth day she was out of the snow and watching the sun sink red and swollen over the marshes to her west.
Most of the way now she traveled by long-unused secret paths through the marshes of Ruwenda. Once she had known every step of these paths as well as the shelves of her own library. From the aching of her muscles, if nothing else, it was evident to her that she had indeed dwelt for far too long in retirement within the walls of her own comfortable Tower. It was true that while all was well with the land there was no need for her to leave the Tower, but still, she thought, she should get out more. How many years had it been since she had seen the land other than in vision trances? Despite her aching body, it was good to be out and about.
In physical appearance, she had put on the semblance of an ordinary woman, no longer young, although still appearing hale and fit despite her snow-white hair. This was the appearance she had always used when traveling about the land, even when she had still been a young girl. It ensured that she would be treated with a certain amount of respect, but not with the superstitious awe that the recognized presence of the Archimage would evoke. But by the end of each day, she wondered whether this semblance of fitness were not as much a lie as anything that would have indicated her more Arcane powers—or her true age.
She could, she reminded herself again, have justified summoning one of the lammergeiers who served her, and she was frequently tempted, especially late in the afternoons, to emphasize the urgency of her mission in that way.
But it seemed to her that setting all Ruwenda astir by landing in the courtyard of her however-many-times-great-niece’s home in such a fashion would give the girl—and possibly even her parents, who ought to know better—an entirely erroneous idea of what the duties and difficulties of being Archimage were, as well as an essentially flawed idea of the proper uses of magical power. There was nothing at all magical about the fronials; Orogastus had kept a stable of them (since he could not summon the lammergeiers, fronials were his only means of transport to and from the Tower), and Haramis had simply continued his breeding program.
Orogastus, always flamboyant, would almost certainly have arrived on this errand by lammergeier if he could have. But that was not Haramis’s way.
So she went on, unattended, frequently leading the fronials when low-hanging vegetation made riding impossible, with nothing outwardly magical about her except her white cloak and staff. Her Talisman, the Three-Winged Circle, worn on a chain about her neck, was hidden by her clothing. She wore her stoutest boots, bespelled somewhat against the rain and fog of this season, and against their wearer’s being lost on the confusing roads—not that the Archimage should have the slightest need of the last spell, but she had dabbled in spell casting since childhood, and she liked to keep in practice.
This journey was a good time to refresh her own memories of the roads and pathways of Ruwenda, for she had not traveled them afoot for many a year. So, though she could have chosen any kind of entourage she wished, or any kind of real or magical conveyance, she forbore magic for this journey, and traveled on foot and by fronial. But she hoped that in spite of this, her great-great-niece would sense some magical purpose in her journey.
It would be a good start to her training if the girl turned out to have some natural magical ability. From what little Haramis had seen of her, Mikayla seemed more likely to try to analyze exactly what made a spell work rather than work to learn the feel of a spell, but she had been the girl in Haramis’s vision of her successor, so obviously it was ordained. She did not think it possible that Fiolon, being both male and from Var, could possibly be her intended successor.
Her leisurely journey through the swamps took another four days and nights, during which time Haramis renewed her acquaintance with more of the land of Ruwenda—mostly in the form of mud—than she really cared to. She had dwelt so long among the snowy mountains that she had forgotten just what mud was like. Snow could be brushed off, and an
y little bit that might be left would evaporate soon after she got indoors again. Mud stuck to her, dried on her skin, and itched. It was a relief when her path joined the Great Causeway and she exchanged the muddy trails for a paved road.
Now that the road was easier, and she no longer needed to watch every step she took, she was free to look around her. Although winter was always rainy in the vicinity of the Citadel, today was one of the rare days of sun and mild temperatures, treasured as a break in the dreariness of the season. Birds chirped in the trees that lined the Causeway. When she reached the meadow that covered Citadel Knoll, she saw that even in midwinter, the black trillium flowers were blooming everywhere. She chuckled aloud. When she had been a child, the Black Trillium had been a rare and magical thing, so rare that there was only one plant in existence, in the care of the Archimage. But after Haramis and her sisters defeated Orogastus, the flowers had sprung up magically all over the knoll. Now they were as common as weeds—and probably, thought Haramis with wry amusement, as little regarded.
It was late morning when she arrived at the Citadel, where she was greeted by the King with surprise so great it amounted to stupefaction.
“Lady Archimage, you honor us greatly,” the King said, looking somewhat nervous. “How may we serve you?”
The Queen, on the other hand, seemed to regard Haramis’s arrival thus unheralded and unattended as no more than the eccentricity of an old woman, and made allowances for it. “You must be exhausted, Lady!” The housekeeper came hurrying up in response to the Queen’s glance in her direction. “Let the servants take your things to the guest chamber and care for your beasts, while you rest from your journey.”
Ten days of coping with the winter weather and the whims of two slightly crotchety fronials (they didn’t mind the mountains much, but they hated the swamps) had left Haramis short not only of breath but of temper.
“You can skip all the ceremony,” she said shortly. “My business is not with either of you, but with Mikayla.”
“Mikayla?” The King looked blank.
“Your daughter Mikayla,” Haramis said through gritted teeth. She had never suffered fools gladly, and she had spent so much of her time alone for so many years that she was badly out of practice in court manners. Furthermore, as Archimage, she didn’t have to care what people thought of her. “Sixth of your seven children. You do remember her, don’t you?”
The King managed a nervous chuckle. “Yes, of course I remember her. But she’s just a little girl. What do you want with her?”
Fortunately for what remained of Haramis’s temper, the Queen was of a more practical frame of mind. Briefly Haramis was reminded of her own parents, the scholarly and extremely absentminded King Krain and the capable and gentle Queen Kalanthe. The Queen sent the housekeeper to be sure that the guest chamber was made ready and the fire lit in it immediately, that servants brought in Haramis’s baggage, and that the two fronials were cared for. She dispatched Ayah, who, to Haramis’s complete lack of surprise, had been hovering behind the housekeeper, with orders to find the Princess Mikayla and bring her to the small parlor immediately. She then led Haramis to the parlor, seated her in the most comfortable chair, and sent for refreshments. “Dinner will be served soon,” she explained, “but perhaps a bit of dried fruit and cheese would be acceptable?”
Haramis sat straight in the chair, being careful not to let her weariness show. Outside, in the bright sun, she had felt well, but indoors it was gloomy and damp, in spite of the fire. She looked at the King, who had trailed after them and was now standing uncertainly near the doorway. She could tell that he would rather have had time to prepare Mikayla for a meeting with her elderly kinswoman. From what little she had seen of Mikayla, she suspected that the Queen felt the same, but she hid it better than her husband. Or perhaps, Haramis thought, the King really was trying to call Mikayla to mind. If he thought she was a little girl, he obviously hadn’t paid much attention to her lately. Haramis had the feeling that today was going to be quite a shock to him.
The food arrived, and Haramis ate politely, restraining her impatience. Ayah would find Mikayla as quickly as anyone could, and it would be unwise to show too much impatience.
But when Ayah returned, she was alone.
“Where is my daughter?” the Queen demanded.
Ayah looked unhappy. “Not in the Citadel, Your Majesty. I’m very much afraid that she’s gone off with Lord Fiolon on one of their exploring trips again.”
The Queen sank into a chair and pinched the bridge of her nose as if a sudden headache had struck her. Unwelcome as this news undoubtedly was to her, Haramis had the distinct impression that it was not a complete surprise. Indeed, the Queen’s only audible comment was a soft, “Why today?”
The King, however, did not seem to understand a situation about which even Haramis could make a good guess. Of course, Haramis’s sister Kadiya had been in the habit of disappearing into the swamps for weeks on end, accompanied only by the Nyssomu hunter Jagun, her favorite companion, so Haramis had some familiarity with this sort of behavior. Princess Kadiya had spent enough time among the Nyssomu to earn the mire-name “Farseer” and to be inducted as an honorary member of the Nyssomu tribe.
“Exploring trips?” he blustered. “Explain yourself, woman! Are you saying that my daughter is running around the swamps alone?”
“No, Majesty,” Ayah said hastily, “I’m sure she’s not alone. She and Lord Fiolon have many friends in the Nyssomu village just west of the Knoll, so I’m sure they went with a guide, at the very least.”
The King seemed about to explode; men, Haramis thought, always asked about nonessentials. But Haramis chose that moment to take a hand.
“Where would they have gone?” she asked calmly.
“I heard them talking last month about some ancient ruins up the River Golobar,” Ayah said, “but they were agreeing that the river level wasn’t high enough to take a boat up that far. Of course,” she added diffidently, “it has rained quite a bit since then.”
Haramis knew the ruins in question, although she had never been there in person. They lay where the Blackmire met the Greenmire, up the River Golobar almost halfway between its source and the point where it flowed into the Lower Mutar River, about a day’s journey west of the Citadel. Allow a day to get to the Golobar, and probably at least a week, under ideal conditions to get to the ruins, assuming, of course …
“The Skritek!” Haramis said suddenly. “She does know that there is a large concentration of Skritek in that area, does she not?”
“What?” the King roared, almost drowning out the Queen’s gasp of horror.
“Don’t you know anything about your realm?” Haramis snapped at him. “It’s certainly clear that you know next to nothing about your family.”
“Don’t worry, Mama; the Skritek won’t hurt Mika,” a child’s voice said reassuringly from the doorway. “She talks to them and they leave her alone.”
Haramis was inclined to doubt the truth of that statement. Certainly she could turn away ravening Skritek with a command, but she was the Archimage.
The Skritek, commonly called Drowners, were known for their habit of concealing themselves underwater to lie in wait for their prey, which included all other Oddlings (such as the Nyssomu) and large animals, then drag it down to be drowned before they ate it. Their hunting habits out of the water were even worse; on land they hunted in packs. Haramis had even seen them attack humans; in fact, a pack of Skritek had wiped out part of King Voltrik’s army. Since King Voltrik of Labornok had invaded Ruwenda, killed her parents, and was trying to kill her and her sisters, Haramis had managed to restrain her tears at the time.
And those were the adults. In some ways, the younger ones were even worse. Skritek laid eggs and abandoned them. Skritek were the only Oddlings to have a true larval stage, which fended for itself as best it could—which was fairly well—until it spun a cocoon, changed, and emerged as a small, ravenous adult. Haramis had the uneasy feeling that
one of the groves of dead trees that the Skriteks used for their metamorphosis was along the children’s proposed route. She resolved to check on this as soon as she had a chance.
But right now, the Queen was proudly introducing her “baby”—the ten-year-old Prince Egon. He bowed properly over Haramis’s hand, to her well-concealed amusement. This one was a little charmer, all right. He had masses of gold curly hair and big innocent-looking blue eyes—in fact he looked quite a lot like Anigel. Must be a throwback, Haramis thought. I hope he’s got brains, although with those looks he probably could survive without them.
“So your sister talks to Skritek, does she?” Haramis asked. “What does she say to them?”
“She says they are forbidden to wage war against humans.”
Haramis was surprised. This was true, and enforcing this prohibition was one of the Archimage’s duties. But how would Mikayla know of this—and under what circumstances had she been discussing it with any of the Skritek? She did not think the Skritek took the prohibition very seriously. But if Mikayla thought otherwise—
Obviously, it was important for Haramis to make Mikayla’s acquaintance as soon as possible.
3
The river had been just deep enough for the flat-bottomed boats used by the Nyssomu to reach the ruins. Mikayla, Fiolon, and their Nyssomu guides Quasi and Traneo had spent several days swapping places back and forth in the boats, taking turns poling them through the shallows and rowing upstream when the water was deep enough. It was hard work, but they kept at it, from sunrise to sunset each day.
When it was too dark to see where they were going, they pulled the boats ashore, ate a carefully rationed portion of the dried meat they had brought along for the journey, and slept in one of the boats, with the other one inverted and tied securely on top of the first. This meant that they didn’t have to stand watch at night. The Skritek, the only predator large enough to rip apart the boats, wouldn’t bother humans without provocation, and as long as Quasi and Traneo slept between Mikayla and Fiolon, their scent would not be noticeable to a passing Skritek. In fact, by the time they reached Skritek territory, they all smelled more of the swamp than of anything else.
Lady of the Trillium Page 2
